


The Samantha Winchester Hotline

by compo67



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Always a girl sam, Anal Sex, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Oral Sex, POV Sam Winchester, Pre-Stanford, Squirting, Teen Angst, Underage Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Weecest, Young Sam Winchester, mention of toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 07:57:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Staying with her brother is tempting. Believing they could be like this forever seems easy. But Sam isn't stupid. You don't cheat diamonds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Samantha Winchester Hotline

**Author's Note:**

> Fic request fill for always a girl!Sam, angst, and something with Stanford. Hope you like it!
> 
> I was about to go to bed and then... XD
> 
> This fic follows Sam when she's fifteen to when she's eighteen but works under the fact that she's had feelings for Dean since she was thirteen. That's a small detail so I just wanna clarify. 
> 
> This is a one-shot. I have no plans at all for more to this little drabble. I might write more always a girl!Sam in the future, but this is a stand alone fic. Back to my other projects. <3
> 
> Comments, kudos, etc. appreciated. Thank you for reading! (Yes, I do fic requests! Message at ittakesalotofwater.tumblr.com.)

She lets him think that all she listens to is John Mayer.

When he’s nowhere near she has on Buckcherry.

Their song “Everything” is her anthem. She sings it about herself when her brother and father are out or when she insists on feminine privacy time. You’d never see anyone move to clear a room so fast.

In stilettos that take a series of lessons from a drag queen outside of St. Louis to get used to, she saunters. Yeah, that’s right, _saunters_ , she thinks, looking herself up and down in the cracked, dirty full-length mirror hanging on the back of the motel door. John never lets her wear anything but the family business uniform—plaid, baggy shirts, loose jeans, and combat boots. When he leaves, as he has now, she summons her fairy godmother and shoplifts what she knows she can without getting caught. Her breasts go from bound and compressed under bandages and a binder to lovingly cupped and pushed up by a Victoria’s Secret silk and lace, barely there bra. She takes after the women on John’s side—she knows this because she looks nothing like Mary; that honor has gone to Dean—with wide curves and large breasts and a sharp, generous mouth. There’s no way anyone has more lip than Dean but that’s okay. Her nipples are pink and pert and sensitive. That’s all good enough for her.

She is fourteen and excited.

 

Growing up the daughter of John Winchester has not been easy. She wants a medal and a handshake from the President.

She is not allowed to hunt while on her period.

She is not allowed to wear revealing clothing or use her feminine graces to get information out of redneck cops or skeevy male witnesses.

She is not allowed to date or even think about a boy officially until she’s fifteen. By then she’s already fucked three older men, all of whom squeezed her tits too tight and came too fast. By then she’s already slept with two older women, all of whom let her lay back and enjoy herself. While Dean was jerking off to lesbian porn one night, on his bed—when she was fourteen and he was eighteen—she commented, looking up from her homework, that the actresses’ nails were too long.

He threw a pillow at her.

 

Sixteen and decidedly unsweet—bitter, putrid, foul—she fucks her brother for the first time after a hunt they take on without backup.

It’s not worth going through everything about his guilt or her hunger. How maybe if she looked more like Mary he wouldn’t have done anything. He wouldn’t have pushed her down on the bed and shoved into her and pounded their hips together, fusing them, reminding her who exactly she fucking belonged to. Reminding her who exactly she needed to live for.

It’s not very often that she lets Dean win or take control when it comes to things between them. Whether it’s chess or sex, she wants to be in charge. Daddy dearest never lets her drive, never lets her interview witnesses, and never lets her hunt anything that’s been preying on teenage girls—which, let’s be honest, counts for a lot of shit they hunt.

The honor always goes to Dean.

Only son Dean.

She loves him.

So much that it hurts in the sharpest, most piercing ways. When she thinks about him and them together she understands the books she reads, the worlds she buries herself in, the pyramids of grief, love, and responsibility all the best, most tragic characters climb and scale. She can start to see how tiny men with frail, breakable bones win against dragons and fire.

When she holds his cock inside her—wedged deep, pressing against a soft spot inside no one has ever found—she knows that although she may be the one penetrated, she is not the one who is the most vulnerable.

Looking at herself in the mirror, she’s about to go out for a pack of cigarettes and some booze. She’s going to have the clerk buy her what she wants and she’s going to give him her number, which is actually Bobby’s line that he specifically made for her. It was her birthday present this year from him—a number she can give to the men who won’t leave her the fuck alone.

Whenever they inevitably roll into Sioux Falls, battered and beaten and worse for the wear, the older man he always has a story to tell about the Samantha Winchester hotline.

_If I have everything would I still wanna be alive? now and then she talks to me and sometimes writes me letters. She’s losing her grace, starts to cry, I feel her pain when I look at her… I want everything. I want everything. You know, all I wanna be, yeah, I want everything. I wanted everything._

For all the men who hassle her and catcall her and grab her ass when her brother isn’t looking, she knows there’s only one man she will one day have to reject in the most hurtful way possible.

Maybe two men.

He handles her like glass sometimes, like when his mouth is on her clit.

But what he doesn’t know is that she’s coal that will turn into diamond.

He’s glass.

Diamonds cut glass.

 

She comes back, mission accomplished, and finds him ready for her.

Lord, if there isn’t anything more diabolical than a Winchester man, spread out, long and lean and hard and eager to please. He’ll have her come three times before he does. She sometimes wonders but never asks, where he got his skills from. Her brother eats her out like an old school stone butch lesbian; he touches her clit like he’s playing the guitar she knows he keeps wedged in the very back of the Impala’s cavernous trunk.

It’s not that Dean is weak.

Glass is surprisingly resilient.

He would do anything for her and she in turn, would decimate the world so he no longer felt obligation or responsibility or the fucking weight of the family business.

The problem is that glass can only handle so much pressure.

She wants his thick fingers and rough tongue and bloated, heavy cock to last forever. She wants him to be hers and her to be his and when he takes her from behind, cupping her breasts with one hand and flicking her clit with the other, fucking her in the ass so she can come all over the bed without him pulling out… that’s when she thinks of the song.

There’s never an orgasm when she’s not screaming, twisting, arching up in pleasure and bucking against him.

The clerk bought her two packs, a case of beer, and three ten dollar scratch and wins.

Dean turns her over and flips them.

On his back, he lifts her up with large, calloused hands, and thrusts into her, getting the angle right on the first time. Riding him, she leans over and holds onto the headboard, pressing her breasts against his face, smothering him, panting and begging him to suck on them, to bite them, to mark them up before she has to bind them down.

They’ve never once used a condom.

The first time she slept with someone with a cock she was young and naïve in that one way because it was the one aspect of life that John had not taught her in.

But she didn’t get pregnant.

Nothing happened.

Dean drove her to an emergency room because she freaked out—she lost it. Hours later, after a bitter pill and some blood work and more pelvic exams than she wants to remember, it was confirmed that she would never have children.

Funny, but she didn’t cry.

And funny, but at that moment she thought of Mary, who had wanted anything else but the lives her and Dean were currently living.

Time flips forward like the songs she skips past on the Impala’s tape player.

The hotline goes unanswered when John fucks up.

But even though their parents are fighting—John and Bobby are fucking married by now, she knows this is true even if her father is an asshole—things between her and Dean remain the same in many ways. She stops stealing because he starts buying her bras and panties and lingerie and vibrators and plugs and nipple clamps. Her brother is nothing but creative and she sits on his face for his twenty-first birthday.

But there are things that do change.

If this seems disjointed it’s because it is.

 

He always comes inside her.

Even when they’re at rest stops and there’s only time for a quick blow job. He will shove her jeans and panties down and kiss her, and force her mouth open wide, as he comes against the wet curve of her, cock twitching and spurting and making a mess all over her cunt and thighs.

And even though she knows he wants to, he never comes on her face or breasts. Though he does—after a drunken night in a small Texas town—fuck her tits under they’re red.

On her seventeenth birthday he tells her she has an ass good enough for porn.

Then he makes her come—spraying—all over the mirror he’s been fucking her against for the past half an hour.

It surprises her no matter how many times it happens, when he picks her up and manhandles her and presses her against walls or carries her to countertops or simply fucks her standing up. She’s only six inches shorter than he is and not exactly petite. It thrills her when he grabs her hair and slams his cock down her open and willing throat.

If she keeps thinking this way she will never have enough pressure.

But the way his hands grope her ass or the way he’s heavy above her, it’s all such convincing, sweet, tempting pressure.

_Buried way beneath the sheets, I think she’s having a meltdown. Finding it hard to fall asleep, she won’t let anyone help her. The look on her face, a waste of time. She won’t let go, gonna roll the dice. Losing her grace, she starts to cry, I feel her pain when I look in her. Praying to God and breathing deep, gotta break this long obsession. Losing her grace…_

That fucking song.

Her stupid, ridiculous thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen year old self.

How many years has she loved him?

She's eighteen.

There are cracks already forming because John won’t let him be his own person. John will see nothing but what he wants to see—focus on and finish what he wants to finish. No one else’s dreams or hopes or lives matter.

Sam isn’t stupid.

She knows the song changes from present to past tense.

 

She wanted everything.

 

The acceptance letter is in her bra on the floor. 


End file.
